"Your instincts have not misled you," replied the poet; "I am
Tricotrin, monsieur--Gustave Tricotrin. The name, however, is to be
found, as yet, on no statues."

"My own name," said the clerk, "is Adolphe Petitpas. I am a stranger in
Paris, and I count myself fortunate indeed to have made monsieur
Tricotrin's acquaintance so soon."

"He expresses himself with some discretion, this person," reflected
Tricotrin. "And his cigarette was certainly providential!"

"To meet an author has always been an ambition of mine," Petitpas
continued; "I dare to say that I have the artistic temperament, though
circumstances have condemned me to commercial pursuits. You have no
idea how enviable the literary life appears to me, monsieur!"

"Its privileges are perhaps more monotonous than you suppose," drawled
the homeless poet. "Also, I had to work for many years before I
attained my present position."

"This noble book, for instance," began the clerk, laying a reverent
hand on the abominable manuscript.

"Hein?" exclaimed its victim, starting.

"To have written this noble book must be a joy compared with which my
own prosperity is valueless."

"The damned thing is no work of mine," cried Tricotrin; "and if we are
to avoid a quarrel, I will ask you not to accuse me of it! A joy,